


Lord Knows

by smellyleaf



Category: Olympics RPF, Swimming RPF, usa swimming
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-08-11
Updated: 2015-08-11
Packaged: 2018-04-14 06:04:16
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,705
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4553529
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/smellyleaf/pseuds/smellyleaf
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Ryan, in response to all of his new found fame and the pressures that go with it, locks himself in the bedroom of his old house. Michael comes to the rescue, in a way.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Lord Knows

**Author's Note:**

  * For [madameroyale](https://archiveofourown.org/users/madameroyale/gifts).



> **[THIS WORK WAS IMPORTED FROM SMELLYFIC.LIVEJOURNAL.COM]**

It started like any other night at the Lochte house.

Ryan came slumping inside with his Florida Gators duffle over his shoulder around four o'clock. His mom was already in the kitchen, frying pork chops, and his dad was sitting on the couch with his feet up on the coffee table, pretending to read the newspaper while he and Devon watched the game.

"Who's winning?" Ryan asked, eyes on the screen.

"Texas," Devon answered.

Then Ryan had circled around the back of the couch and gone upstairs like it was nothing.

\- - -

" _Harder_!"

Michael Phelps rests one palm in the center of the girl's lower back and gives her one good slam, and that shuts her up. They're fucking over the back of the couch in his condo (been fucking, for almost two hours), and she's making all the right noises and everything, yeah. But he's not going to nut, he can see that, so he pulls out and walks away from her, kicking open the door on the fridge.

"Is that it?" She asks, straightening up. Here hair is long, and blonde, and it's not right.

Michael's out of beer, and he's out of the hard stuff, so he slices the foil on a three thousand dollar bottle of wine and drinks straight from the neck. He doesn't answer her, doesn't say a word, and she finally gets the picture and gathers her clothes up and leaves.

He finishes the bottle of wine sitting on his bed, naked, watching himself in the mirror. His dick stays hard throughout, and he watches that too, enjoying the kind of worldly bitterness seeping into his bones out of the wine bottle.

He's still sitting there, debating over whether or not he would judge the wine as three thousand dollars worth of grape juice, when there's a buzz from his door. His dick is no longer hard, at least.

So he gets into motion, finally, and he notices that the sun has risen and started setting again outside, at some point. He puts on a pair of boxers and answers it.

"Package," The guy from the apartment below says, holding out a brown box. In the blank for Sender, it says R LOCHTE, "I found it outside my door."

Michael thanks him for it, then retreats back inside, setting the box down on the counter to grab his cellphone. He has to call it off the house phone first, but finally he locates it, ringing from deep down within the couch.

He presses the five on his speed dial, listening to the rings while he slices open the top of the box.

Inside the box is Michael's custom-made blue and gold University of Michigan hoodie that he had Ryan's fashion people make. It's just in time for his season tickets, of course, and he smiles because that's the sort of thing Ryan would make sure of.

**"Hey, you've reached King Reez-"**

Michael realizes he is listening to Ryan's voicemail and hangs up, then presses the redial, studying the little details of the jacket.

He walks to the bedroom to try it on, and it looks great, so he models it in his underwear for a second or two. Then he tosses it on his unmade bed and goes in the closet to pick out an outfit around it.

**"Hey, you've reached K-"**

He frowns and hangs up again. Grumbling to himself, he presses redial again.

**"Hey, you-"**

Again.

**"Hey, you've re-"**

"What the fuck?" Michael scowls, highly irritated, and redials again.

"Hey."

He waits for the rest of the voicemail to start and when it doesn't, he lays in on Ryan in a rush.

"Look, asshole, I've been blowing your shit up, where've you been?! Hoodie came yesterday, just like you said, but it must've been downstairs, dude just brought it, I have to say, it's better than I expected, doggy, maybe you DO have talen-"

"It's me. Devon." Devon says, sounding a whole hell of a lot like Ryan.

Michael is instantly mortified, but he's not sure why. He feels like his private conversation has been hijacked, even though it was nothing important.

"Well, lemme talk to Ryan," He grumbles, crossing his arms over his chest in annoyance. He feels like their conversation is a lot more important than whatever bullshit Devon has to say.

"That's the deal, see. Ryan's right here, but he's been staring at a wall for over two hours and the only word he said was "Oh" and that was a whole hour ago when I asked him if he was ever gonna move again."

Michael is confused, "What?"

"I dunno. He's sitting here holding all his medals and he's just looking at the wall. And mom made pork chops and he won't even come downstairs."

Michael's stomach rumbles at the thought of pork chops, "Put the phone to his ear." He waits until he hears a rustling over the receiver, "Ryan, this is your best friend talking. Hello, Earth to Reezy."

He only hears the faint sound of Ryan's even breathing.

"See, he's com-a-toes." Devon pronounces it like 'tomatoes' when he returns to the line, "A vegetable."

"It's comatose, and he's not a veggie." Michael stands up, pulls a white Hanes t shirt over his head, "You said your mom made pork chops?"

"Yeah."

Michael pulls his jeans on, steps into his blue Nikes with sockless feet, "She can't save me one of them?" He puts the Michigan jacket on and admires how fresh it looks for a minute in the mirror. The wine is just barely tingling up under his skin.

It's Devon's turn to be confused, "What?"

\- - -

It started simply enough.

Ryan tossed his duffle bag onto his old bed and unzipped it, staring blankly at the dirty Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles shirt on top. Lifting it out, he unfolds it and looks down at the contents.

_Gold._

"You're a dude with solid gold medals, no girlfriend, and no ambition." He told himself, alone in the semi-darkness, testing it out.

\- - -

Even though Michael sort of said as much and even though Devon did put a plate up for him in the oven, it's still something of a surprise when the doorbell rings at midnight.

Devon answers it in his underwear, because he was asleep on the couch, and then he just stares at Michael in shock, because Michael Phelps looks good as fuck, and his jacket actually matches his brand new pair of Nikes, and it's a little surprising.

"Pork chop," He says, walking right past Devon and flipping the hood of his jacket down.

Devon pads sleepily into the kitchen and returns with the plate, handing it over silently. Pork chops with Spanish rice and corn. Michael starts shoveling the shit down, picking the pork chop up directly by the bone to take bites out of it, as they walk upstairs.

"What are you gonna do?" Devon asks, standing out in the hall as Michael goes into the darkness of Ryan's room.

"You'll understand when you're older," Michael says, and shuts the door in his face.

\- - -

"God," He says, flipping the light switch on, "You're taking this Doom And Gloom thing a little far with the darkness, huh?"

Ryan is sitting on his bed, clutching a green t shirt he's wrapped his medals up in and staring at his dresser.

Michael sits down on the bed next to his best friend, balancing the plate of food in his left palm. Picking the pork chop up by the bone, he dangles it under Ryan's nose, "Hungry?"

Meat juice drips down and plops silently onto Ryan's white shorts. Michael watches with a frown.

"You're not even gonna yell at me for ruining your pants?" Michael takes a huge bite, chewing with his mouth open. When Ryan continues his stony silence, he sighs, "Well, some of us are having serious life issues." He pauses, and when no reaction is forthcoming, decides to act like Ryan is completely normal, "Dude, I went to the bar last night and met this girl. Like, right off, I didn't even have to flirt with her. Which, I didn't look as good at the time as I do now, I actually kinda looked like a drunk piece of shit, so I don't know what she saw, but anyway. I get her back to the condo and all she wants to do is fuck though, you know? Which, like, should be what I want too, right?"

Ryan, of course, doesn't answer.

"Well, get this. So we're fucking doggy style over the back of the couch and I start feeling kind of pissed off at this girl. And it's not her fault or anything, but I'm pissed off because for some reason I can't nut." He takes another huge tear of meat off the pork chop, chomping noisily, "But I guess this isn't making any sense, I should really start at the beginning, huh?"

Ryan says nothing.

"So I first figured out I couldn't nut like, about two months ago?" That isn't exctly right for a start though, and it doesn't help his problem. So he frowns and thinks it over for a minute.

"Dude, you better not tell anyone about this shit." Michael pauses, as if waiting for Ryan's nonexistent response, "Well. . . I mean, I guess that's not the beginning either, see. . ." He pauses again, "Basically, dude, I jacked off this one time two months ago and I thought of a dude." He blurts, trying to get the worst over with, "As in, a GUY with GUY PARTS. And I'm broken now, man, my dick is broken." He chews some pork contemplatively, "There's no other answer."

Ryan doesn't react.

"Good, you're taking this well." Michael nods, like Ryan's speaking back to him, "So that was two months ago and I haven't thought about it since, I SWEAR, but. . . I can't nut. Like, I fucked this girl for an hour and couldn't nut, Ry. So now I think I could just nut if I'd think about dudes, right? But where the fuck does that shit come from anyway? Like one day I just can't nut without thinking of a guy anymore?"

Except that's an exaggeration, and he knows it, and _Ryan_ knows it. Because one time Michael got drunk and kissed Ian Thorpe right on the lips and one time Michael kind-of-sort-of-might-have leaned Cullen's general direction on New Year's once, right when the ball was dropping, and promptly got turned down.

And maybe once or twice before he's thought about somebody decidedly unfeminine while he's Doing That, though Ryan doesn't know that part. It's never meant anything though, because Michael Phelps is straight. He's sure of it.

But before, it was almost like cheating on a test, just a secret little pleasure for himself. Ryan, his mother. . . other people **period** , were on a strictly need-to-know basis. Except now his dick is broken and he can't nut and his best friend is a fucking mute.

"Dude, this is a fucking crisis," Michael informs him, gnawing on the pork bone.

Ryan doesn't answer.

Michael nods his head, listening to the answers in his head, "No, I would say she was definitely skeet-worthy. It's me, dude, it's my head. My head's out of the game, I can't think straight while. . . you know. Or, like, I can't STOP thinking, actually."

And it's true, because lately he's been doing a lot of Trying Not To Think. Especially about dicks, and biceps, and particularly charming dimples with peircing blue eyes, except he won't even allow any of that to cross his mind long enough to remind himself not to think about it. Because those are dangerous thoughts.

Michael keeps talking, "That's not the only thing, man. Like, this girl. . ." He chuckles, still licking at the pork bone every now and then for the flavor, "She gets up to go pee and I find myself elbow-deep in her purse, snooping through her phone."

_'That's creepy, MP._ ' Ryan would say, if he would say anything at all.

"I was so fucking paranoid, though, thinking she probably had the fucking press waiting out at the car. And then she didn't, and she was really a nice chick, and I was an ass anyway. I didn't even talk to her or tell her an excuse, I just started getting drunk." He laughs again.

_'And you say I'M heavy with the Doom And Gloom,'_ Imaginary Ryan whispers in his ear.

Michael sets the plate down on Ryan's bedside table, "It's like. . . I was mad BECAUSE she didn't do something wrong. Does that make sense?" Like, I wanted her to fuck it all up so that later, I could say it was HER fault, not mine." He sighs, dropping his head into his hands, "Which is fucking stupid of me, because it's obvious that the problem is me. "

Ryan doesn't answer. Michael takes this particular silence as accusatory.

"But I'm allowed to have problems. What's your excuse?" His eyes fall on the medals and he reaches out, prying one gently from Ryan's fingers and bringing it close to his face to read the inscription, tone changing to one of reverence, "You deserved these, you know."

Ryan still says nothing.

"Some of us are born dolphins," He says, obviously meaning himself, "But you worked really, really fucking hard for these. So if that's what you're so worried about, you're an idiot, dude." He pries the rest of the medals out of Ryan's hands, setting them back inside the duffle bag before kicking said bag to the floor.

He knows he's rambling a little, but he's tired and it's hard to think straight.

Then he unlaces Ryan's shoes, takes his socks off of him, and removes his watch and his chain. Pushing him backwards, Michael forces him to lay down with his head on the pillow, though Ryan still just keeps staring.

"Dude, don't look, I'm borrowing your shorts." Michael selects a folded pair of basketball shorts off a pile of laundry next to the door and hesitates for a split second before dropping his pants.

Ryan just looks at the wall, but he doesn't close his eyes or anything either.

"Well, whatever. It doesn't count if you're a statue." Michael mumbles, flicking the light switch when he's done. Climbing in the bed next to Ryan, he tries to fit about four inches between them, "I know I said all that stuff about. . . guys. . . but this is NOT weird, okay?"

When Ryan doesn't respond, he feels a little better.

"Anyway. I was saying." Michael continues, but closes his eyes, getting comfy, "I haven't been able to nut, dude. Do you think that it might be a real medical problem, or do you think I need to just break down and see a shrink?"

_'Either way you need a shrink, dude. Lord knows.'_

"Fuck you," Michael mumbles, getting drowsy, "This is bringing back major Beijing memories right now, dude. You, staring at a wall. Me, not allowed to nut." That doesn't make any fucking sense, but Ryan isn't listening anyway, "Yeah. Awesome." Michael passes out before he can say anything else stupid.

\- - -

He wakes up some time later. Ryan is holding him close, one warm, tan arm snaked around Michael's slim waist, that freckled nose pressed into Michael's shoulder.

Ryan is awake, because his fingers squeeze the fleshy part of Michael's side and he sighs.

"Dude," Michael says blearily, "When are you gonna explain what's wrong with you?"

Ryan freezes.

"Too late, I felt you move. So own up."

"Please don't leave and go back to Baltimore." Ryan says, and his voice sounds wonderful to Michael's ears, after all that silence, "I think I'm having a bit of a bigger problem than yours."

"So talk," Michael mumbles sleepily, shifting his body closer to Ryan's warmth.

"Well, I figured out I'm alone. That I don't have anything but my career."

Michael nods, "You figured that out? Good. It was like keeping Santa a secret for a little kid, the rest of us were starting to just feel guilty."

Ryan snorts, amused. His palm slides over the curvature of Michael's hip bone curiously.

"I mean, that one time you tried to talk to us about your friends back home? That was just precious."

"Shut up. I'm being serious."

"So am I," Michael says through a yawn, "There, I solved your problem."

Ryan's hand rests on his hip, his thumb stroking over the jut of bone, ignoring Michael's words, ". . .And then you say you're retiring, and that means I've lost my only real friend anyway."

Michael makes a small sound of contentment at the touch, "Whatever."

"It's true. I'll. . . miss you, out there in the water." He coughs, trying to clear the air, and changes subject, "The jacket came out good."

"Jeah," Michael agrees sleepily, "It fits, too."

Ryan looks down at him, at his closed eyes and calm expression, "Michael. . ." He pauses, ". . .What's it like, with a dude?"

Michael shrugs, never opening his eyes, "Dunno. I just thought about it, I never did it."

Ryan studies his face in silence for a moment, gaze lingering on the way each lash casts its own shadow. He runs his eyes over the slope of cheekbones and the dusting of dark brown stubble along the jawline where Michael hasn't shaved in about two days.

He looks at Michael's lips for the longest time, and he's never been the type to just think it and never do it. So he kisses him.

It's softer than he expected it to be, and Michael's lips taste like cherry chapstick and pork chops. Which isn't nearly as unpleasant as it sounds.

At first, for the first whole entire second, Ryan thinks he might just maybe feel his heart do this weird fluttery thing. Then his dick takes over all the thinking because Michael's mouth opens under his and Ryan pushes his tongue forward to accept the invitation, plunging down between Michael's lips with a soft groan.

He should be thinking about how this will ruin their friendship, and about how they need to stop. He can't think anything, though, because one of those big hands finds purchase at the back of his skull and those long fingers sink down deep into his curls and Ryan doesn't care about anything else.

He can tell that Michael has been wanting it, whether he knew it or not. The way he rolls them over, pressing into the kiss to deepen it, one leg slipping between Ryan's thighs to press insistently against his erection. Ryan sees dark spots in his vision and he digs his fingers into Michael's back, "OhmyGod." Because Michael is undoing the button on his pants and the release of that pressure is almost more than Ryan can take anyway.

Which, yeah, he's hard. Ryan doesn't give a fuck, it feels good when Michael's leg rubs against him and he moans to encourage it. Michael pulls away from the kiss and nuzzles his head down in the crook of Ryan's neck to suck softly on his pulse point and his hand tugs his shorts down down down just enough.

Michael spits in his palm and rubs it over Ryan, shifting around above him until he manages to line their shafts up. Ryan groans as he watches the head of Michael's dick snag under the lip of his own little army man's helmet, the heads of their dicks bumping and smearing precum together. It feels fucking ridiculously amazing, and he forgets to breathe for a minute until he almost passes out and has to gasp for air again.

Michael grunts and lowers himself, pinning his and Ryan's erections between their stomachs. Then his hips start jerking in rhythm and Ryan moans and arches his back up to create more friction. He feels lightheaded from the rush of his blood to his dick, and he has to close his eyes for a second. Michael kisses him while his mouth is still open in a moan, cutting the sound off short before they wake everyone in the house up.

The sun is just rising in the window behind Michael's head, and it looks like a halo behind him when he braces himself on his arms to thrust faster. The bed rocks with his movements, but thankfully it's silent rocking, and Ryan lifts his hips up to increase the pressure of it all.

Michael inhales sharply through his nose and then warmth floods between them as he comes, grunting softly, the sound muffled by Ryan's lips when he presses their mouths together. His hips don't stop for a second, and the new slickness combined with the heat of it has Ryan digging his fingers into the muscles of Michael's back as his toes curl.

"Don't stop," He gasps out, tapping Michael urgently on the back to make sure he hears because he's _thisfuckingclose_ to finishing and it's unbearably amazing. Then he has to bite Michael's shoulder to silence a groan, body shuddering slightly beneath him.

Michael longs to kiss every inch of Ryan's face, to press his affection into every single freckle. Because this feeling he has has got to be important somehow, this feeling like nobody in the entire world could ever matter as much to him as this moment, this second in time. He doesn't know for sure, but he thinks maybe Ryan won't let this make their friendship weird, because Ryan could never let anything be weird. He doesn't know for sure but he hopes maybe Ryan will want to keep doing stuff like this.

"Did you mean what you said, about me deserving all my medals?" Ryan asks, still panting.

"Jeah." Michael lifts his head from Ryan's shoulder, looking at him with those deep brown eyes, "Did you mean. . . this?" He indicates their position.

Ryan nods silently.

Michael sighs, relieved, "Good, because I had the worst case of blue balls. Two months of blue balls, man. Now I know I don't have to see a fucking shrink."

"Either way," Ryan drawls (and Michael laughs out loud because it's so similar to the Ryan in his head), "You need a shrink, dude. Lord knows."

Michael just keeps laughing, but of course Ryan doesn't get the joke.  


 

 


End file.
